


The Mysterious Case of Lucy Purcell

by moonbobjohnson



Category: True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbobjohnson/pseuds/moonbobjohnson
Summary: Quitting the force to go into business with Wayne Hayes had its advantages for sure, but, Roland reflected as Lucy Purcell laid a hand somewhere in the vicinity of his hip and aimed what could only be described as a leer his way, there was still some definite bullshit involved, too.
Relationships: Tom Purcell/Roland West, Wayne Hayes/Roland West (one-sided)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: Scoot McNairy's Forehead Veins Appreciation Society Secret Santa Exchange





	The Mysterious Case of Lucy Purcell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hailbilinski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hailbilinski/gifts).



> Written for sckboy/hailbilinski who requested an AU in which Roland is a private investigator hired by Tom. Originally I was gonna play it straight and do the whole Tom’s-kids-are-missing thing, but I realized I’m sick of talking about Tom’s missing kids, so instead, here’s…this.

Wayne Hayes never did know when to keep his big mouth shut. Folks always went around thinking Roland fulfills that particular role in their little duo, but unlike _some_ people, Roland knew to save his smartass remarks for when he was actually aiming to piss someone off. It was a strategic type of thing. Wayne, on the other hand—the trajectory of Roland’s career, hell, of his whole life, seemed to be at the mercy of when and where Wayne decided to open his mouth. Today, his mouthing off has landed them off chasing after some asshole on foot down a side street. Could’ve been an easy pickup, they’d been right by the guy, but no, Wayne had to go and open his mouth. Then their bail jumper takes off running and of course, the motherfucker’s in shape. 

“Right behind you, Purple!” Roland calls after Wayne’s back. He manages a few more attempts at a hobbling jog before throwing in the towel, slapping his palms onto his thighs so he can bend in half and wheeze.

He’s back in the car, soaking in the air conditioning, by the time Wayne arrives out of breath with the man in cuffs. They make the drive over to drop him off in mostly silence, Roland saving his complaints for when there’s not a third party to offer their input. When it’s just the two of them again, Wayne sits there for all of a minute before giving in and unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, tossing his clip-on tie on the dashboard. He’s left sitting in the passenger seat in just his white undershirt. Roland catches a look with a casual sideways glance, taking in the sight of Wayne’s bare, muscular arms, his undershirt gone a little translucent with sweat. A decade since ‘Nam and the man’s still in perfect shape. Roland wishes he could say the same for himself. He sneaks another glance as they pull up to a red light, only for Wayne to catch him at it.

“What?” he asks.

It was real goddamn shame the man was straight as an arrow. Roland had been reflecting on that a lot as of late. God, he needed to get laid.

“Nothing,” Roland says, shrugging. “Just thinking about how much smoother that could’ve gone.”

“Think you’re just bitter you can’t keep up with me,” Wayne retorts.

“Man, is that any kinda way to speak to someone who gave up his whole career for you?” Roland arches his eyebrows. “Real nice.”

“You’re worse than a woman when it comes to holding a grudge,” Wayne says, shaking his head, but otherwise keeping his eyes fixed out the passenger window.

“Woman, huh? Trouble in paradise?” Roland asks sweetly. When Wayne doesn’t give him anymore to go on, he relents, sighing, “I could’ve made lieutenant, y’know.”

“Mmhm, suppose you got the required capacity for bullshitting.”

“Uh-huh, unlike _somebody_ I could mention.”

—

He shows up at Wayne’s place after work with beer and Chinese takeout in hand. Presses down on the buzzer without letting up just to be a nuisance. Wayne answers the door with his usual annoyance at Roland’s misuse of the doorbell, dressed in a clean undershirt and slacks. His disgruntled expression disappears as Roland raises the food in his hands.

“You’re gonna make a great housewife someday,” Wayne tells him, grabbing the six pack.

They end up side-by-side on the couch, as usual, only half-watching whatever’s on the television, more focused on the food and beer. 

“Got any New Year’s plans?” Roland asks as he cracks open another beer.

“Me n’ Amelia got reservations at that new place downtown.”

Roland grunts in acknowledgment, aiming for a casually interested expression. He must not quite manage it because Wayne takes one look at him and goes, “Jealousy ain’t a good look on you, West.”

“Who’s jealous?” Roland says breezily. “I might go out drinking, pick up a chick or two. Or I might just stay home and get good and wasted. Fall asleep before the countdown even starts. Enjoy the freedoms of bachelorhood you’re missin’ out on, son.”

“Uh huh,” Wayne says, unimpressed and unconvinced as ever. “I’d invite you along, but this one’s supposed to be a date night.”

“That’s alright,” Roland rushes to assure. He’s attempted to play third wheel to Wayne and Amelia before—every night out with them was a fifty-fifty chance on whether they’d start acting uncomfortably cutesy (Roland have not yet been able to deduce if this was normal for them or if they were doing it specifically to fuck with him) or that they’d break out into a big fight. There was no in between. He hadn’t yet decided which option he preferred least. He throws out, “In fact, think I might head outta town for the holiday. Just lettin’ you know so you don’t try to call me and think I’m ignoring you.”

Wayne snorts, kills his beer. “Anything needs doing, I’m sure I can handle it just fine without you.”

—

Roland ends up driving out to Little Rock for New Year’s Eve, checking into a motel for the few days their office is closed for the holiday. He knows it’s dumb to drive out all this way—there’s a perfectly fine gay bar right there in Fayetteville, less than a twenty minute drive from his apartment. It’s not like he’ll get fired if he gets outed nowadays, but he supposes old habits die hard. Besides, some part of him’s always worried he’ll step out the bar’s front door to see Wayne and Amelia gaping at him across the street, mid-argument. Just the thought makes him wince.

The place is packed to capacity, decked out in tinsel and streamers. He shrugs off some flamboyant guy who’s ten years too young for him and weaves his way to the bar. He’s two drinks in when a guy across the way catches his eye—regular working class type of guy, unshaven, bigger than himself, wide palms resting on the bar. They finish their drinks together, make a little conversation, then head back to Roland’s motel room.

They don’t talk much beyond a moment where the man offers him a hand to help Roland off his knees when Roland is wincing and can’t quite manage it alone.

“Bad leg?” the man asks, already crowding Roland back against the bed, mouth at his neck.

“Vietnam,” Roland says, figuring that’s answer enough.

The guy doesn’t bother to stick around afterwards, just cleans up and buckles up, then he’s out the door again. Roland sits on the edge of the bed and lights up with a sigh. Can’t help but think about Wayne and Amelia at that fancy downtown restaurant, dressed up and probably holding hands or some shit. He should be feeling better after getting railed, but there’s still that empty pit of jealousy lingering in his gut. He blames Wayne, really. Back when he was Mr. Marriage-Ain’t-For-Me, it was easier to shoot the shit and act like he didn’t give a fuck. Now, with Wayne gone right off the deep end, it’s harder to lie to himself. Shit, he was sure Wayne was probably already shopping around for a ring. The two of them hadn’t even known each other a year yet and Amelia was as good as Mrs. Hayes. He wishes the guy from the bar had stayed around for a smoke, at least.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into his hands, “when you’d get to be such a romantic?”

—

Date night must’ve gone off without a hitch, because when Roland gets back into the office after the holiday, Wayne’s in a good mood. He’s not outwardly happy—is he ever?—but he’s got that quietly pleased demeanor of his going on. Roland feels sour and hungover in comparison. He makes an impromptu New Years resolution to cool it on the drinking. Their morning’s a whole lot of handling chores and playing catchup—responding to voicemails and emails, updating files. The usual joys of office work, though Roland can’t complain too much. It’s less paperwork than detective work ever was and there’s no higher ups breathing down his neck. It stays quiet. Roland figures anyone in need of a private investigator is probably still in bed nursing a hangover. Where Roland himself wishes he was.

No clients stop by until late afternoon when a car pulls into the parking space right out front. Chevy Malibu, freshly waxed, good condition. They both glance up to watch the driver as he kills the engine and steps out. Guy of average size, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. Baseball cap pulled down over his curls, his face hidden beneath its shadow except for a mustache. He checks out the front of their building, then shakes his head and fumbles out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Lights up and leans against his car smoking instead of coming inside. Roland exchanges glances with Wayne.

“Bet you it’s the wife,” Wayne says.

“Well, I ain’t gonna take that bet, obviously it’s the wife,” Roland scoffs. “Alimony?”

“He’s still got his ring on. Cheating, probably.”

“Ain’t it always,” Roland sighs, not thrilled at the prospect of days or weeks spent tailing some chick likely stretching out in front of them.

“Least it’s easy money,” Wayne says, returning to his papers.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll be meeting up with her beau out in Devil’s Den.” Roland grins. “Give you something to use those tracking skills for.”

“Hm,” Wayne snorts, “that’ll be the day. Be camped out in the car more likely than not.”

The guy finishes his cigarette and pulls another from his pack, then seems to reconsider. Slides it back into place instead and sighs before finally coming inside. The bell above their front door jingles cheerfully and the guy winces at the sound. Roland reckons he isn’t the only man in the room nursing a hangover.

“Afternoon, sir,” Roland greets, sliding his boots off his desk in a belated attempt at professionalism. “How can we help you?”

“Uh,” the guy says, his eyes darting about the office, clearly out of his depth. “Yellow pages says you handle stuff like…personal stuff. Marriage-like, I mean.”

“Yessir,” Roland agrees. “What’re we talking problem-wise?”

Wayne’s letting him handle this part, as usual. He prefers to save their first interactions with customers to size the client up, like he’s still a detective and needs to know if a suspect or witness is lying. Like they’re no longer just going along with whatever the person paying them says to do.

The guy’s mouth twists. “Like extramarital affairs type problems.”

He’s trying to make it sound impersonal. Roland kind of prefers it when the clients come right out with it—I need you to follow my cheating bitch/bastard of a wife/husband. 

“Yessir, we can handle that,” Roland says, rising from his desk to offer his hand. “I’m Roland West by the way, and this here’s my partner, Wayne Hayes.”

“Tom,” the man says, gripping Roland’s hand a little too tight in his own nervousness. “Tom Purcell.”

They end up camped around Wayne’s desk in office chairs, taking down basic information. Wife’s Lucy Purcell, married over a decade, working as a waitress in a bar in West Finger. Hours? “Dunno, I stopped keeping track. She’s out of the house more often than not, nowadays.” Friends? “There’s Margaret. She’s a couple doors down the street. ‘Sides her, I don’t really know.” For appearance, Tom pulls an old Polaroid from his shirt pocket and slides it their way with the warning that it’s more than a few years out of date. They’ve had worse to work off of. There’s a few other things—what car she drives, any other places she frequents around town, any particular men he suspects her to be seeing (”Fuck if I know,” Tom grunts, his neutrality having slowly broken down over the course of their talk), if they have kids.

“We got the two,” Tom says, the harshness of his expression lifting for a moment, “but they take the bus to school, bike just about everywhere else. Lucy don’t have much to do with ‘em.”

Wayne jots it down. “We’ll take a preliminary look, starting at her work. See what we can find right off the bat. From there, it’d be helpful if we could stop by your place. Take a look through her things, see if we can find any hints at who she could be seeing.”

Tom’s shoulders tense up for a moment, then he heaves out a long sigh and relents, “Sure, why the fuck not.”

From there, it’s just paperwork and payment. Tom pays in cash, pulled from a folded envelope tucked in the pocket of his jeans. Then he’s back out the door.

“No surprises there,” Wayne says, looking already bored by the prospect.

—

The Sawhorse is just downtown—or what counts for a downtown in West Finger, anyhow. The town’s center is more of a crossroads that just happens to house five of the ten businesses in town. The bar itself is no high class establishment, but it looks passable enough, the kind of place Roland might stop by himself for a few after clocking off. Only a bit past noon, but there’s a handful of cars parked out front, one of which matches Tom Purcell’s description of his wife’s car.

“Surprised they even got a bar out here,” Roland says as he loops around the block, scoping out the best location to park themselves.

“Ain’t much else to do out here but drink,” Wayne says. He’s already at the ready, eyes alert as he takes in their surroundings. Man spent two tours out in the jungle with his life on the line, plus his time with the state PD, yet he can still summon up that hunter’s gaze for things as insignificant as bail jumpers and cheating wives.

Roland positions them curbside across the street, beneath a cluster of scraggly trees he hopes will provide them some cover. Not that he’s expecting Lucy Purcell to be on the lookout for people tracking her movements. Cheaters usually aren’t looking out much except their own spouses’ cars. Wayne pulls their stakeout bag from the backseat to unpack a pair of binoculars and his camera with its long-range lens.

They’re nearing hour three when they finally get their first glimpse of Lucy Purcell. Roland nearly misses it, already daydreaming more than watching for their target, but Wayne gives him a helpful elbow to the side.

“Watch it,” Roland grouses. “That her?”

“Wouldn’t be waking your ass up if it wasn’t,” Wayne replies, already peering through the binoculars.

Their woman’s leaned up against the outside wall for a smoke break. From this distance, Roland can’t tell much of a difference between her present appearance and the grainy photo Mr. Purcell had given them to work off of. She finishes her cigarette, grinds it down against the wall behind her and flicks the butt out into the parking lot. Then she’s back inside the bar, the windows too small and the bar’s interior too dark to make out much of anything.

“Man, I would’ve hated to miss that important bit of info,” Roland grumbles.

It’s several more hours before Lucy Purcell finally clocks off for the night. She reemerges from the Sawhorse with a coat thrown on, wobbling on her heels as she gets into her car. Roland’s thrilled to have something to finally do, even if it just turns out to be following her to the grocery store. She turns out of the parking lot and immediately guns it, blasting straight through the red light in front of them.

“Woah!” Roland shouts, craning his neck to look down the street. “You fuckin’ see that?”

“Must get an employee discount. I’d hang back a little further than usual,” Wayne warns him.

Even with Lucy’s driving style, it’s not hard to follow her—there just isn’t anywhere much to go in West Finger. She makes a brief stop off at the liquor store, returning to her car with a brown paper bag cradled in her arms. From there, she heads back down the town’s main road, turning off into the parking lot of a little motel on the corner. The lot’s nearly empty. She parks, grabs the bag and kicks her car door shut before making her way up to one of the rooms. She’s acting real casual, no looking around or searching. She’s been there before, that’s for sure.

“Well, shit. That was quick,” Roland mumbles, peering through the binoculars from their vantage point in the car. 

“Usually is,” Wayne mumbles, zooming in on his camera and clicking away.

The door is answered pretty quick, opening only a crack at first, then thrown open wide enough to reveal its occupant. Lucy’s age, give or take, scroungy goatee, wearing sweatpants and a stained undershirt. Big white cast on his left arm. The man grins wide, pulling Lucy into a half-hug before letting her inside and shutting the door behind them.

“Christ,” Roland groans, setting the binoculars down on the dash. “That’s the guy she’s fucking? Not a real upgrade.”

“Her husband ain’t exactly a catch himself,” Wayne scoffs.

“What?” Roland squints at him. “You crazy? Maybe it’s high time you upgrade that camera lens. If I had to fuck one of ‘em, it’d definitely be the husband. Knows his way around a car at least. Ain’t livin’ out of a rathole motel. Can grow actual facial hair.”

Wayne looks up from the pad of paper where he’s jotting down all the car makes and plates in the parking lot and raises his eyebrows.

“What?” Roland asks, shrugging his shoulders and mentally kicking himself.

It’s not until past midnight that Lucy leaves her mystery beau’s motel room. She comes out looking a little disheveled, jacket forgotten, combing her hair back into place with her fingers. Her boyfriend walks her back out to her car. Waves at her as she takes off before heading back into his room. From there, she heads on back home to her husband and kids.

“Pretty cold,” Roland says, watching as she turns onto Shoepick Lane. He smacks his hands against the wheel. “Well, mystery solved. Guess we can break the news to the husband tomorrow.”

—

They stop by Shoepick Lane the following afternoon, where Lucy’s car is long gone from the driveway. Tom’s in his work coveralls, smelling of motor oil as he leans over to set two mugs of coffee down on the table before sitting across from them.

“Look, Mr. Purcell, I’m afraid we got your wife visiting a man’s motel room last night,” Roland says in as gentle a voice he can manage. 

Tom’s mouth is a thin, grim line as Wayne fans out the photos out across the kitchen table. Tom slides them apart, then snorts as he picks one up from the middle. He turns it around toward them and taps the man in the grainy image. “Fuck’s sake, that’s just her cousin. Dan O’Brien.”

“Her what now.” Roland exchanges a glance with Wayne.

“You know—her cousin—like her blood relation?” Tom scowls, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “He was stayin’ with us for a bit. Kept smoking pot in the house. Hotboxed the bathroom once when the kids were tryin’ to get ready for school. When he handed Will a ten and told him to go grab him some beer and chips from around the corner ‘cause he was too fucked to drive, I kicked his ass out. That didn’t go over real well with Lucy. She never mentioned he was still in town, but no surprise there. I’ve never liked the little shit.”

Roland frowns, his mind clicking through the snapshots mentally—the hug, Lucy’s disheveled appearance afterwards. “You sure they’re not…uh, what I mean to say is, it wouldn’t be the first time—”

“What exactly you implying about my wife?” Tom growls, leaning forward, hands flat on the tabletop. Like he’s contemplating flying across it to tackle Roland if he continues this train of thought.

“Sir, I actually meant that, uh—” He winces as Wayne kicks his bad leg under the table. “—that your wife may be doing drugs. With her cousin, that is. Drinking, at the very least.”

“Oh. Well, that’s hardly a revelation,” Tom says, relaxing all at once. “Got into a couple fights over it. Coming home to find her and Dan stoned on the couch when she’s supposed to be watching Will ‘n Julie. I think he might be doing harder drugs, honestly. I ain’t got proof, but…shit.”

There’s the sound of footsteps coming up the walkway to the front door, keys rattling. Roland sweeps the photos off the table and back into their manila folder, which he sets on his lap under the table.

“That’ll be the kids,” Tom mumbles.

Roland relaxes a little at that—at least it isn’t Lucy. He casually sips at his coffee while Tom and Wayne both cross their arms. When the front door pushes open to reveal Tom’s kids—by all accounts, your average Midwestern children, and Roland’s not sure what he expected, other than maybe copies of their parents in miniature—they take one step in, then slow to a stop at the sight of strangers in their kitchen. Roland wonders if maybe their casual posturing looks more like they’ve been caught mid-Mexican standoff.

“Hey, there,” he greets, raising his mug. Beside him, Wayne gives a solemn nod.

“Will, Julie, these are uh, my friends. Roland and Wayne,” Tom says in such an awkward tone that Roland has to hold back a wince. “They work in…security.”

Tom’s kids regard them with uncertain looks. Roland’s got a feeling Tom doesn’t have many friends over. Julie narrows her eyes in a way that looks especially suspicious for a ten-year-old girl. There’s definitely a mother-daughter resemblance there. Roland feels guilty just by being in their presence—something about knowing what their mother may or may not be getting up to in her spare time. He takes a larger gulp of coffee than he means to, his swallowing making an audible noise that has Wayne shooting him a look.

“Security?” Julie asks.

“Yeah, uh, you guys remember those break-ins a couple blocks over?” Tom drums his fingers in a nervous beat against the table. “Was thinkin’ maybe upgrading our locks. Getting an alarm or something.”

“We could just get a dog,” Julie says, her eyes still narrowed. 

Will’s eyes dart between her and his father with sudden interest. Roland notices the kid’s got a darkened bruise high on one cheekbone. His stomach gives an unpleasant lurch at the sight of it. He hopes it was just an unlucky fall. 

Tom frowns. “We’ve already discussed this.” Julie shrugs and walks past them, her brother at her heels, Tom calling after her, “We ain’t getting a dog!”

A door closes further back in the house, not quite slamming shut, but just slightly louder than it should be. Like a reproach. Tom heaves out a sigh.

“I ain’t too big on dogs, myself,” Roland throws out.

“Lucy said she ain’t pickin’ up no dog shit, and I say it’s too expensive besides,” Tom says in a tone of voice that implies this is far from the first time he’s had to list off the reasons. He lowers his voice, “Anyway, y’all should probably get going.”

—

The following day, they arrive at the Sawhorse just in time to see Lucy parking out front for her evening shift. She slams the door shut and hunches down to double check her makeup and hair in her side mirror. Then she’s back off into the dim unknown of the bar itself. Wayne compares the cars in the lot to the ones at the motel the night before. No matches.

“You think that guy’s really her cousin?” Wayne asks.

“I mean, she could be lyin’ to her husband about it, but it ain’t like they’d be the first pair of cousins to go pushing the boundaries of familial love.”

“Hard to say, but they seemed close. What we really need is some eyes on her inside. You should go in there, get some idea of the regulars. Coworkers. Anyone that seems like a promising lead.” Wayne glances his way, shakes his head, “Don’t look at me like that. I’d stick out like a sore thumb in there. You seen a single black man go in there?”

Roland shrugs in a begrudging sort of way. “Think you just don’t like talking to nobody. Especially white trash.”

“Well, like does attract like.”

“Hey, fuck you.” Roland huffs out a sigh before patting his coat to check for wallet. “Fine, you know what, I’ll take drinking over having to sit here twiddling my thumbs all day.”

The Sawhorse’s interior is about what he expected—passably clean besides the suspiciously sticky floor, taxidermy on the walls, at least one customer wearing a cowboy hat. He supposes Wayne was right to send him in. He orders a beer and grabs a stool at a little table off to the side where he can easily scan the room in its entirety. There’s more than a few customers who seem to be there to eat more than to drink. He’s only seen a couple other places to eat in town—a little burger joint and a cafe with peeling paint and a faded sign that’s probably out of business anyhow. There’s two employees in sight—an older man tending bar, and Lucy in the corner, wiping down an empty table.

She approaches him after she finishes up, offers a half-smile despite the grey shadows beneath her eyes. “Can I get you anything ‘sides the drink?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll get a basket of fries while I’m at it.” Roland shoots her a grin.

“Coming right up,” she says, her smile brightening a little.

Well, fuck, she doesn’t seem so bad, after all, even if it’s no more than service worker politeness. Suddenly, he’s feeling a little guilty for having so immediately judged her. He thinks of her creepy cousin again and the guilt abates some. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she makes the rounds, checking on customers—she’s friendly, sure, maybe even a little flirty, but nothing that says she’s trying to get into anyone’s pants.

“You from around here? Haven’t seen you in here before,” Lucy says as she sets his fries down.

“I live up in Fayetteville,” Roland says. “Do security work, I’m just down here installing some new locks for a client.”

“Really, now.” Lucy puts a hand on her hip. “I could use some new locks around my place—neighborhood’s had a few break-ins. I figure it’s just a matter of time before someone realizes the locks on mine’re ancient. What’s your company’s name?”

“Oh, uh, it’s Wayne.” Roland nods. “Wayne Locks & Security.”

“You Wayne?” she asks, smiling.

“No, ma’am, I’m Roland.”

Lucy snorts at that and heads off to clean another table as its occupants exit the bar. Roland idles at his own table, taking his time with the fries, getting up once to order a second beer. Lucy comes and goes from the back rooms—she flirts some with an older man that must be a regular, but it seems more like banter than anything truly untoward. She stops by Roland’s table a few more times to chat with him about nothing in particular—local sports, the weather, construction around the area. If anything, she seems bored. Maybe in need of better tipping customers. When she slips out the door for her usual smoke break, Roland stands. He makes sure to tip higher than he usually does, pays at the bar, then heads out the door after her. Lucy’s out front, leaned up against the wall. She glances over at him.

“Back off to work?” she asks him, tapping her cigarette off against the brick wall.

“Nah, I was already off for the day,” he says, tucking his hands into his coat pockets against the evening’s chill. “Heading home, now.”

“Mm, any plans?” she asks.

“Nope, just gonna plant myself in front of the TV, I suppose. Go to bed early, do it all over again tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucy says, taking a step closer. “I don’t got any plans myself tonight.”

Suddenly, her hand lands somewhere around his hip. Roland blinks, his mind stalling out a moment. Somehow, he hadn’t seen exactly where this was headed.

“My shift lets out in twenty,” Lucy says, aiming what could only be described as a leer his way.

“Uh, look, ma’am,” Roland stammers, “I think you got the wrong idea.”

“How’s that?” Lucy asks, still smiling.

“I’m gay,” Roland blurts out.

Lucy freezes, her hand stilling on his side, her expression flattening out. Roland takes the opportunity to extract himself, adding, “Sorry for the misunderstanding!” as he walks away as quickly as he can manage.

He walks down the sidewalk around the back of the bar, where Wayne pulls up. Roland gets into the passenger seat in a hurry, flustered. He can still feel the ghosts of Lucy’s spindly hands on him. His skin crawls. “Christ, you get that? I should’ve been wearing a wire. Goddamn.”

“The pictures should do it justice enough.” Wayne hands the camera off to him. “We should hang around ‘til her shift’s over. See if she goes back to that motel. Least now we know she’s more than willing to cheat, given the chance. What’d you tell her to get her off you? Had a pot roast in the oven you had to get back to?”

“Told her I was gay.”

Wayne turns to look at him in silence for a long second, then bursts out laughing. Roland snorts out a laugh himself, but for an entirely different reason.

They wait around again until Lucy’s off her shift, then follow her car at a distance. This time, she heads north on the main road right out of town. Wayne’s sitting upright in the passenger seat, on alert from the change in her schedule. She takes the road all the way up to Fayetteville, where takes a few side streets until they hit an apartment complex. Lucy’s car vanishes into its underground parking structure.

“Well, shit,” Roland says, bringing the car to stop across the street.

“Won’t be seeing which apartment she’s visiting from here,” Wayne says. “Not unless we wanna go peeking in all the windows, anyhow.”

“We should run it by Tom tomorrow,” Roland suggests. “If we’re lucky, he’ll know someone who lives there—a coworker or a friend or something. Save us the trouble of having to camp out here checking cars going into the parking structure one by one to compare with the ones at the bar.”

“We can do it later after we handle some shit at the courthouse. Got a call about some paperwork for our bail jumper,” Wayne says.

Roland groans. “They need both of us for that shit? C’mon, man. How ‘bout I go talk to Tom and you handle the courthouse. I feel like I took one for the team here today.”

“Fine,” Wayne sighs. “Guess you earned it.”

—

Roland calls Tom in the morning to let him know he’ll be stopping by, though he supposes it no longer matters if his kids catch him or Wayne around. Even if they don’t look like they entirely buy it, a cover story’s been established. When he gets to Shoepick Lane, Tom’s fresh off work again, wearing his blue coveralls and baseball cap. Looking more tired than usual, too, Roland notes. 

Tom sighs, tossing his baseball cap onto the kitchen table. He yanks a hand through his flattened curls. “So, what’s the news, Detective?”

Roland smiles at that, though he doesn’t bother pointing out he _was_ a real detective, once. Maybe Tom read that in their yellow pages ad—he thinks he recalls him and Wayne throwing in that bit of info for the sake of a better sell. “Well, we got your wife going into the parking structure of an apartment complex up in Fayetteville last night. Was hoping maybe you’d recognize the place.”

There’s the sound of a car driving down the street outside. Roland’s got the photos out of his pocket before it registers that the car is, in fact, pulling up into the driveway. Him and Tom freeze in unison. 

“Shit,” Tom whispers, grabbing Roland by his upper arms, “you gotta get outta here.”

He hurries Roland along, pushing him down the hallway and into his and Lucy’s bedroom. There’s the click of heels up the walk outside and a key being turned in the front door. Tom slides open the bedroom window and pops the screen out, wincing at the low creak of the old metal being dislodged. Flakes of rust rain onto the bedroom carpet. Roland huffs out a breath as he lifts his bad leg up and out the window, Tom helping him with an arm around his waist. 

“What the _fuck_.”

Roland freezes, still halfway out the window. His grip on the windowsill slips and only Tom’s hold keeps him from tumbling over completely. Lucy’s in the bedroom doorway, purse dangling from her fingers, her narrowed eyes moving slowly between the two of them.

“The fuck is going on here, Tom?” Her eyes flick back to Roland. “You—you were at the Sawhorse yesterday.”

“Uh,” Roland stammers, “it’s—well—”

“Lucy—”

“Did you fucking send him to spy on me?” Lucy’s voice is steadily rising in volume. “What the fuck, Tom? Who the hell is this guy anyway?”

“Look, Lucy, he’s just—a friend—”

“Wait, let me guess—you met him at _that_ bar, right?”

“Don’t you start with that.” Tom grits his teeth, dropping his hands from Roland like he’s been burned. “It ain’t like that.”

Roland catches himself on the windowsill with a grunt.

“Like what, Tom? It ain’t like you got some guy in _our_ bedroom? Some guy who shows up at my work to fucking what, keep tabs on me? Now you got him going out the goddamn bedroom window like you’re trying to hide he was here. What exactly am I supposed to think here, Tom?”

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here—like you haven’t been fucking every guy that’ll look at you twice!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you could get it up, would I!” Lucy shouts, throwing her purse to the ground to jab a finger in Roland’s direction. “What about him, huh? Can you get it up for him? Are you fucking him?”

“You’re goddamn right I’m fucking him!” Tom shouts, flinging his arms out wide, like he’s daring Lucy to take a swing at him.

Roland’s too stunned by the turn of events, he doesn’t even know whether or not to argue the point. He’s more focused on not being stuck halfway out Tom and Lucy’s bedroom window while also being caught in the middle of their fight. He manages to haul his bad leg up and over the window frame, though he thinks maybe he’d have better just throwing himself out the window after all.

Lucy looks at him and gives a derisive snort. “That figures—only guy you can actually get to fuck you’s some kinda cowboy cripple. I guess he’s right up your pathetic alley.”

“That’s right!” Tom snaps, pushing into her space. “I sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t I!”

That sends the fight right into an eruption point in which Tom and Lucy start hurling insults at each other. They’re so in each other’s faces that Roland slips right around them and exits the bedroom unnoticed. He feels a little bad about it, like he should be intervening, but he definitely wasn’t hired on to play marriage referee. Besides, for all the shouting they’re doing, they at least seem to be keeping the fight purely in the realm of verbal attacks.

He comes to an abrupt halt in the living room, suddenly face to face with Will and Julie, both standing awkwardly in the open front doorway. He wants nothing more than to flee the general area, but it feels all sorts of wrong to leave the kids there to witness their parents screaming at each other just down the hall.

“Uh, you guys hungry?” Roland asks, aiming for casual, like he can’t hear their mom calling their dad a useless, limp-dicked bastard in the background. “How ‘bout we go grab some food? My treat. Think I passed a burger joint on the way in.”

Will and Julie exchange quick glances, in some kind of wordless communication that results in Julie nodding for the both of them. Roland’s not sure if their parents never bothered teaching them not to get into cars with strangers, or if Tom played up Roland being his friend enough for him to be deemed trustworthy. Maybe they’ve just decided that today, taking a chance on stranger danger seems the superior choice to staying home.

Roland switches the radio on in his car to fill the awkward silence left by the two kids in his backseat. When he was their age, you couldn’t pay him to shut up for more than a few minutes at a go. At least the burger joint’s less than five minutes away. It’s a rundown little family-owned place that’s probably been standing there since the fifties, but the food’s not bad. He looks across the table at Tom’s kids; the bruise on Will’s cheekbone is going green around the edges.

“You get into a fight?” Roland asks him through a mouthful of burger.

Will’s mouth twists as he nods.

“You win?”

Will shrugs, but Julie gives a Roland a sly look. “You should see Bradley’s face,” she says. “It’s way worse.”

Will frowns at her, not looking particularly pleased with the assessment. He shrugs. “But Dad got upset when he had to leave work to get me from the office.”

“So, what’d Bradley do to earn the beating?” Roland asks, trying not to smile too openly about it. Figures Tom won’t be too pleased if he’s off encouraging his children to get up to trouble. 

“Bradley’s a shithead,” Julie says, her tone matter-of-fact as she dips her fries into ketchup.

“Woah, there,” Roland says.

“Sorry,” Julie says, not hardly looking it.

Roland supposes there’s a hell of lot worse she could be saying, most of which she could’ve picked up from her parents not ten minutes earlier. When he drives them back home, Lucy’s car has vanished from the driveway and Tom’s sitting on the cement slab of their porch, smoking. He stands as soon as Roland’s car pulls up. Roland kills the engine and gets out of the car alongside the kids.

“Hey, Dad,” they greet in unison, normal like their parents weren’t having a no-holds-barred fight when they left.

“Hey, Will. Julie. Why don’t you guys head on inside?” Tom’s expression is pained. Roland supposes it’s the realization of all the dumb shit he said in front of his kids coming crashing down onto his head now that he’s not in the heat of it.

Once the kids are inside, he turns to Roland and says in a low voice, “You often just take people’s kids without asking?”

“I would’ve,” Roland says, arching his eyebrows, “but you and your wife seemed real preoccupied.”

Tom’s anger deflates all at once. “Fuck,” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his face. He drops back down to sit on the porch.

“You alright, Mr. Purcell?” Roland asks.

“No,” Tom sighs into his hands, “but you should go. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Roland says. “Me and Wayne’ll be in contact if we find anything out. ‘Night.”

—

Tom’s camped outside the office when they pull into the lot come Monday morning, leaning against his Chevy and smoking. Roland winces as Tom lifts his head—he’s got beginnings of a black eye and dried blood caked around his nose. The man is looking rough. Roland exchanges looks with Wayne, who looks, if anything, annoyed.

“Alright,” Wayne says, not turning off the car, “why don’t you deal with him? I’ll head back out and actually get some work done.”

“What? Why I gotta be the one to handle him?” Roland scoffs. It’s not like he doesn’t like Mr. Purcell, it’s more the principle of arguing about it with Wayne.

Wayne eyes him. “Because he likes you better. ‘Sides if the guy’s wife is beating on him on top of everything else, I don’t really wanna sit through the sob story.”

“Damn, man. Guy’s paying us, have some sympathy,” Roland says. He catches the start of Wayne’s scoff before he slams the door shut and Wayne’s back out the lot again. “Everything alright, Mr. Purcell?”

Tom gives him a bleary look that clearly says _what do you think, asshole?_ He doesn’t verbalize it though. Roland’s pretty sure that’s a good sign that Tom’s warming up to him.

“Why don’t we step inside? We got a little bathroom in the office that you can get cleaned up in,” Roland says as he digs his keys from his pocket.

Tom crushes his half-smoked cigarette beneath his work boot, then trails after Roland, misery seeming to come off of him in physical waves. Or that could just be the alcoholic vapors hanging about him like an aura. Roland locks the front door behind them and leaves the blinds drawn, flipping on only the single fluorescent light that hangs crooked from the bathroom ceiling. Tom lowers himself to sit on the lid of the toilet. He buries his face in his hands with a long sigh as Roland dampens a paper towel and squeezes out the excess water before handing it over. Roland watches him.

“Your nose ain’t broke, is it?”

“Nah,” Tom mumbles. His expression doesn’t change as he wipes at the dried blood—either it’s not that bad, or Roland’s misjudged just how drunk he is.

“Hold on, we got a little fridge that should have some ice in it. Started keeping it on hand after a client punched my partner one time.” And for when he really needs a drink, but he figures it’s not the best time to mention that.

They end up camped out on the office chairs, only light from the bathroom and between the slats of the blinds filtering in. Roland doesn’t bother to turn on the rest of the lights—he figures they’ll only worsen Tom’s hangover and besides, he doesn’t really want anyone knocking on the door in the assumption that they’re open for business. Tom remains hunched over on Wayne’s chair, his nose wiped clean of blood, holding a paper towel of ice to his eye.

“So, what happened?” Roland asks.

“Caught Lucy in bed with her boss from the bar.” Tom sniffs. “Our bed.”

“Shit,” Roland says, “you find your wife’s boss fucking her in your own bed and the guy takes a swing at you?”

“Well,” Tom says, his eyes sliding slow across the wall away from Roland, “not exactly. Might’ve thrown the first punch myself. But it’d be goddamn pathetic not to.”

“You at least get a couple good hits in?”

Tom doesn’t meet his eyes in a way that Roland translate into _no, he did not._

They sit in silence a while, before Roland offers, “Well, suppose you won’t be needing our assistance any longer, then.”

“Uh, well, actually,” Tom mutters, lifting his head, but still not meeting Roland’s eyes, “look. I didn’t actually hire y’all about the cheating. Lucy’s been stepping out on me for years, I already knew that. It’s something else I’m needing help with.”

“How’s that?” Roland asks.

“I wanna divorce her,” Tom says, finally raising his eyes to meet Roland’s.

“Ah, so you’re looking to what? Avoid alimony?”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Tom drags a hand across his face. “I want custody of my kids. Full custody. Problem is I don’t think Julie’s mine.”

“Shit,” Roland says. “You sure?”

Tom groans, dropping his head into his hands and mumbling past his fingers, “It ain’t like there’s been a paternity test and Lucy’s never said so outright, but there’s no way Julie’s mine. I was working offshore when—well, you know. She ain’t mine, but that don’t matter. I raised her. She’s my daughter, even if it’s not by blood.”

“But you think if you ask for a divorce, this is gonna be a problem? You think she’ll bring it up to screw you over?”

“Maybe. I dunno—she might. I just wanna make sure I’m prepared for it. If she does.” Tom shakes his head. “But it don’t matter anyway, it ain’t like I got enough to pay y’all for another week.”

Roland frowns. “Look, you paid us plenty. Our rate’s overpriced as is. We can do another week, see if we can’t pull up something better for a custody case.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah, man,” says Roland.

“Thank you,” Tom sighs, head hanging down and exhaustion written in every line of his body, looking like he’s about to drop.

“You staying somewhere else?” Roland asks.

“I—I just slept in the car last night,” Tom admits, not looking up, “here in the lot.”

“Christ, man. Look, I’ve got a couch, alright? Why don’t you just come on back with me.” Roland stands.

Tom looks up at him, brows knitted together, something cracking in his expression like he’d forgotten people could be kind.

“C’mon,” Roland repeats. Tom stands and trails after him as Roland locks the office up. “Mind if we take your ride? Seems my partner’s gone and taken off with mine.”

—

“Why don’t you catch some sleep?” Roland suggests, tossing his keys onto the table next to the front door. “Couldn’t have slept for shit out in your car. I’ll make the couch up for you.”

Tom stands uncertainly by as Roland lays down blankets and a pillow. “I appreciate it,” he manages when Roland’s done.

“No problem. You need anything, I’ll just be in the other room, handling some paperwork.”

He retreats into the bedroom to work, knowing he’d feel weird sitting out there in the living room, watching the guy sleep. Besides, there’s things to be gone over here—he’s got the stack of bills and expenses that he took from the office with the promise he’d handle them, plus some folders of old documents to sort through. He shuffles into the kitchen later to make himself coffee, trying to keep quiet as he starts up the machine. Tom appears to be dead asleep on the couch. The phone emits a sudden, shrill ring and Tom twitches, grunting in his sleep at the sound. Roland unplugs it before it can ring a second time.

Tom sleeps through the afternoon, not even waking when Roland fixes himself a sandwich around one. He finally wakes just as the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, rising from his cocoon on Roland’s couch with his hair mussed every which way. He yawns wide, his jaw clicking with the movement.

“Shit,” Tom mumbles when he checks the clock beneath the television, “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

“You looked like you could use it,” Roland says. “You hungry? I was figuring I’d order in a pizza.”

The pizza doesn’t take long to arrive. Tom beats him to the door and insists on paying for it, waving off Roland’s protests. They settle in on the couch. Roland flips on the television and grabs a couple of beers from the fridge. Maybe not the best idea, but it’s not like he’s going to let Tom get wasted on his watch and besides, the guy looks like he could use one. They shoot the shit about whatever’s on TV—it’s the first actual, not weird conversation he’s had with Tom Purcell since meeting him. Tom seems in better spirits than this morning, whether it’s from the food and sleep, or just from getting away from Lucy, Roland couldn’t say. Either way, he actually manages a couple of half-smiles and barks out something that resembles a laugh once. Roland finds himself telling the story of him and Wayne’s bail jumper, just in hopes of getting another laugh out of him.

“How’d you and him partner up in the first place?” Tom asks.

“We were partners back in state PD first. Wayne got into some shit with our bosses, or he had been getting into it all along, but this time was the final straw. They gave him one last chance, but instead of rolling over, he says fuck it and quits. I don’t hear from him for something like half a year. Man just vanishes off the face of the planet. Then, one day he just shows up on my doorstep, asking if I’d want to go into business with him.”

“Was it worth it?”

“I mean, it ain’t perfect,” Roland laughs, “but it’s got it’s upsides. No boss breathin’ down my neck. No office politics. No coworkers, except Wayne anyway and yeah, sometimes we grate on each other, but I think we got a good routine down by now.”

Tom nods and sets down his empty beer bottle. Roland gets up to grab them both another from the fridge.

It’s a couple beers later that Roland finally goes ahead and asks.

“So, are you really,” Roland trails off. He makes a hand gesture that he hopes communicates ‘gay.’

Tom drops his head backwards onto the couch with a groan. “Shit. I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

“Maybe. It don’t really matter. It’s besides the point,” Tom says, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his expression pained. “It’s just—my kids, they shouldn’t have to worry ‘bout this shit. Some fucker I work with—his kid goes and tells Will, ‘my daddy says your daddy’s a faggot’ and Will ends up getting into a fistfight over it.”

“Well, way I see it, seems the positive here is your boy’s a sight better than you at throwing a punch.”

Tom actually snorts at that. He tips his chin down to look at Roland. “I’m sorry I got mad at you about taking my kids out for dinner. I should’ve been thanking you for not letting them hear all of me n’ Lucy’s bullshit.”

“I would’ve asked your permission,” Roland says, “but I didn’t think Lucy’d take too kindly to being asked by the guy you’re fucking.”

“Shit,” Tom groans, squeezing his eyes shut, “I shouldn’t’ve gone and said that. Shouldn’t be dragging you into my shit at all. Always go saying dumb shit when I get mad.”

“It’s alright,” Roland says, chuckling. “I mean you did buy me dinner and all. Let me borrow your car. Figure you ain’t a half-bad boyfriend, so far.”

“Christ,” mutters Tom.

Roland laughs again to himself as he pushes up from the couch to go toss their empty bottles. He figures he better do him and Tom both a favor by cutting the drinks off there, while they’re just pleasantly buzzed and nothing more.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Tom calls from the couch.

“Hey, after what I just asked you, you got the right. Shoot.”

“How’d you mess up the leg?” Tom asks.

Roland snorts, shakes his head. “Usually, I tell people I got it in ‘Nam, and it’s technically true. I was in motor pool.”

“You got shot at working in motor pool?”

“Nah,” Roland laughs, dropping back down onto the couch next to Tom, “faulty jack. Shouldn’t been under the car to begin with, but the time I am, that happens. Go figure. Leg was already halfway to fucked from rodeo to begin with.”

“You did rodeo?” Tom asks, giving the big pastoral painting above the fireplace and the cow sculpture on the mantle beneath it a pointed glance. “I should’ve guessed.”

“Hey, now. A man invites you into his home, don’t you go giving him grief about his choice in decor. Don’t see me coming into your home and passing judgment about your interior design skills.”

Tom snorts out a laugh, then winces a little. His eye’s swelled up into a real shiner, dark and half-swollen shut.

“How’s your eye doin’?” Roland asks, reaching out to turn Tom’s face toward him with just a thumb to his stubbly chin. “Should probably get some more ice on it.”

Tom goes still beneath his hand, his breathing going shallow as Roland thumbs the dark, swollen edge of his eye socket. “It’s not that bad,” he breathes out, brow furrowed.

“Alright,” Roland murmurs, his gaze caught on Tom’s.

He makes to pull his hand away, but Tom follows right along, leaning in and crashing his mouth onto Roland’s, a little too hard, their teeth banging together before Roland gets them righted. Tom’s grabbing hold of his lapels, climbing half into his lap to press closer. They keep kissing, Roland buzzed enough to not spare one thought about whether or not this is the best idea for either of them. He’s more focused on rasp of Tom’s stubble against his neck, the stifled groan he makes when Roland yanks him back up to press their mouths together again. It’s only when Roland slips a hand beneath Tom’s undershirt, up the smooth, warm skin of his side, that Tom does the thinking for the both of them. He pulls back and like that, their kissing grinds to a halt.

“Uh,” Tom mutters, color risen high in his cheeks. 

Roland looks at Tom’s black eye, the bruising across the bridge of his nose, and feels suddenly terrible, like he’s somehow taken advantage. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment, the whole scene feeling ridiculous and surreal with Tom still on his lap, both of them half-hard against each other.

“Sorry,” Roland breathes out, letting his hands slip from Tom.

“No, it’s—it’s my fault,” Tom rushes to reassure as they disentangle themselves. “I shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s alright,” Roland says, standing and backing away. “It’s fine. Look, why don’t you get some more rest? I’ll be in the other room.”

Tom squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

—

Tom drives them over to the office come morning. Roland’s glad it’s only a short drive from his apartment because the whole ride is spent in awkward silence. Roland’s on the verge of speaking several times, but everything he can think of sounds ridiculous in his own head. He keeps his mouth shut instead. At least his car is parked out front of the office when they pull up—Wayne must’ve driven it back. He opens the passenger door, then stops and looks back at Tom. 

“Hey, uh,” he trails off, then throws caution to the wind and lays a hand on Tom’s upper arm, “I’ll let you know. If we find anything, that is.”

“Alright,” Tom says, eyes fixed on Roland’s face, body frozen beneath his hand.

“Lemme know if you need anything,” Roland adds, squeezing Tom’s arm once, then forcing himself from the car.

Tom drives off. The office is open, lights on, Wayne already stationed at his desk inside. He looks up, frowning, as Roland walks in.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. “I’ve been getting work done and you can’t even be bothered to answer your damn phone. Look.”

Wayne grabs a thin stack of photos from his desk and lays them out in a row as Roland meanders over, feeling dazed.

“I tailed Lucy, she went to that same apartment complex again. But this time, she was following another car from the bar. This must be the guy she’s seeing. I don’t know if he’s a coworker or just a customer.”

Roland gives the photos a short glance. “Yeah, man, I already knew that. It’s her boss. They’re fucking.”

Wayne throws his hands up. “The hell were you yesterday?”

“I was with Tom,” Roland explains. “He caught the two of them together in bed, that’s why he showed up all beaten to shit.”

“Well, you could’ve let me know that. Would’ve saved me from wasting an entire day on this.” Wayne sighs, gathering up the photos again. “Case closed then.”

“Not exactly,” Roland says. He fills Wayne in on the details of his and Tom’s talk yesterday. Minus a few more personal details.

“So, guy’s looking for more than just proof his wife’s cheating, then,” Wayne says.

“That’s about the gist of it,” Roland agrees. “He ain’t got the funds for it, though. I told him we’d give it one more week, on the house.”

Wayne’s eyebrows raise. “Did you.”

“Hey, don’t you go getting all pissy about it. Like you didn’t pull that shit last year when that kid came in looking for his lost cat. Spent a whole three days straight out there staring at the dirt for fuckin’ cat prints to track.”

Wayne aims a flat look his way. “Last I checked, Tom Purcell isn’t ten years old.”

“No, he ain’t,” Roland says, annoyance creeping into his voice, “but his kids are and you can’t tell me those kids are better off with their deadbeat mom.”

“You disappear on me yesterday, now we’re doing work for free,” Wayne says, completely ignoring Roland’s point. Dick.

“Guy needed a place to stay, alright? I let him take my couch for the night. Cool it.”

“Oh, now we’re really crossing the line of professionalism, then.”

“Don’t you start with that shit, not when you’re seeing—”

“Amelia was a witness, not a client—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake man, I thought the whole point of going independent was not having to follow all these dumbass rules.”

“Doesn’t mean I ever said let’s just blow professionalism sky high. What’re you so concerned about this guy for anyway? Since when have you been such a bleeding heart?”

“He’s a good guy, alright?” Roland snaps. “Tom’s a good guy and I like him, okay? That some kind of problem?”

Wayne’s giving him a funny kind of look, one of his detective ones, narrowing his eyes like he’s searching for tells in Roland’s face. Roland realizes his face is heating with something other than just anger. _Quick, you gotta reassert your heterosexuality,_ his mind whispers, _bring up something that reminds Wayne of just how straight you are._ Like when that one client—

“Look, it ain’t like you caught him sucking my dick or nothing,” Roland blurts out. Fuck, he’s made it worse.

Luckily, Wayne only winces and groans, “Thanks, I’d almost forgotten. How come we no longer gotta shower together and I’m still seeing you with your dick out?”

Roland grins, says before he can think better of it, “Hey, I can’t blame you for looking.”

Wayne’s mouth gives a lopsided twist. “If it’ll get you to stop talking about your dick, then fine,” he says, “but we ain’t spending more than another week on this shit. There’s other jobs lining up we could be working on.”

“Better involve actual investigating, and not more of this moonlighting as bounty hunters bullshit. We gotta sprint after another fucker, you’re on your own.”

“Think I was already on my own the last time,” Wayne says. “Look, I did get something else besides Lucy going with her boss. I went back and checked on that cousin of hers again.”

“And?”

“Guy’s got a lot of damn visitors. And none of them stick around for too long—they come by, stay in his room for less than ten minutes, then they’re out the door.”

“You think the guy’s dealing?”

“Looks that way. Tom said him ‘n Lucy definitely smoke pot, at the very least, but he thought maybe the cousin’s doing something stronger. Could explain why Lucy looked so messed up that night when she left.”

“Alright,” Roland says, nodding. “It’s a start.”

—

“Called in some favors,” Wayne announces when Roland arrives at the office the next morning. He slides a few papers across his desk. “Looks like Lucy and her cousin both got priors.”

“Yeah? Shit, some of these’re recent,” Roland says, scanning Wayne’s notes. “Driving under the influence and possession charges. Looks like Dan paid her bail—doubt Tom even knows about those.”

“And the cousin’s got a few heavier charges—older ones, but still, it’s promising,” Wayne adds. “We should head out to the motel, get eyes on him again.”

“You got it, boss,” Roland says, grinning.

They leave for West Finger around noon. The motel’s about as occupied as it was on previous occasions. Lucy’s car is parked out front, right next to Dan’s. She eventually emerges from the room, probably heading off to her shift at the Sawhorse.

“Guess she must be staying with him instead of at home,” Roland mutters.

It’s at least another hour before an unknown car pulls up and a man gets out, heading for Dan’s room. The man’s car isn’t in the best shape and neither is he, but there’s nothing that definitely proves he’s using drugs. They watch as he knocks on the door. Two knocks and Dan’s opening the door to let him in. Five minutes later, the guy’s out and on his way.

“I’m gonna give it twenty minutes and then I’m going in,” Wayne announces.

“You’re what?” Roland asks.

“I’m going in,” Wayne repeats, already in the process of pulling off his tie and coat. He glances at himself in the side mirror, then takes off his dress shirt too. Untucks his undershirt. “No way we’re gonna prove anything otherwise. Where’s that tape recorder?”

“Uh, and you’re gonna say what exactly? Nice afternoon, ain’t it, I’d like to buy some drugs?”

“More or less,” Wayne says, pulling the tape recorder from their bag and checking it.

“You sure you should be going? What if he’s some kinda racist? Maybe I should be the one to go in.”

“No way,” Wayne says, snorting. “If Lucy told him about you the other day, he’ll recognize you easy enough. ‘Sides I’m sure so long as I’m looking to buy, he’ll sell to me.”

“Uh, okay?” Roland says, not quite agreeing, but seeing no point in arguing the issue further. He knows when Wayne’s got his mind made up.

Wayne times out twenty minutes on his watch, then he’s out of the car. Roland watches, his nerves jumping, as he knocks on Dan’s door. Dan answers. They stand there talking, a little longer than he had with the previous guy, but then he’s standing aside to let Wayne in. Wayne disappears into the motel room. It makes Roland a little twitchy, not having his partner in his sight. Not like a little weasel like Dan O’Brien could take down Purple, but still. Less than ten minutes pass and Wayne’s back out the door. Roland drives around the corner so he can pick him up out of sight. Wayne slides into the passenger seat, fiddling with the recorder in his pocket.

“What’d you get?” Roland asks. “Anything?”

“Mmhm.” Wayne pulls a little baggie from his pocket. “Methamphetamine.”

“Shit, man!” Roland crows, banging one hand on the steering wheel in triumph. “We better get back and check that tape. Between this and those past drug charges, that should be more than enough for them to make a custody case. And—we did in just a couple days.”

“It ain’t a sure thing, but it’ll help his case,” Wayne says. “So, we done babysitting Mr. Purcell now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roland says, still grinning, too pleased to be annoyed, “we’re set.”

—

It’s a little under a month before he sees Tom again. They talk on the phone a couple of times, more about business than anything else. Roland figures it’s bad time to ask Tom if he’d like to grab lunch or a movie, or something, what with the divorce and custody proceedings gearing up. He isn’t about to push the issue. Then, one morning, Wayne and him are just getting settled in for the day when Tom’s Chevy pulls up. Roland’s up and out of his chair in record time, straightening his tie and fingercombing his hair before Tom’s engine is even off. He spots Wayne’s raised eyebrows out of the corner of his eye. He’s starting to think Wayne might finally be catching onto him, or more likely, Amelia is and has mentioned her suspicions to Wayne. He’s too pleased at the idea of seeing Tom again to worry about it.

He’s out the office door just as Tom steps out of his car. Roland comes to an abrupt halt.

“Shit, man,” he says, surprised.

The corners of Tom’s mouth quirk into the slightest of smiles as he drags one palm over his clean-shaven face. “I got my appointment with the lawyer come Monday. Figured I should try to look a little more like a responsible parent. Might even buy a tie.”

He’s still wearing a flannel shirt with his jeans and work boots, but his curls are slicked back away from his face. He looks softer, somehow, his face more exposed.

“Looks good, man,” Roland says. “Looks real good.”

Just that seems to grind their conversation to a halt, Tom breaking eye contact and dragging a hand over the back of his neck, like he’s suddenly embarrassed to have Roland’s eyes on him. They stand there a moment, silent, and Roland wonders if Wayne’s inside watching the proceedings with his detective’s eyes, piecing it together.

“Uh, I was just stopping by ‘cause I wanted to ask you for copies of the photos and tapes. For the lawyer to take a look at, so we can start figuring things out for the hearing.”

“Could’ve done that over the phone,” Roland says with a smile. 

“I could’ve.” Tom tucks his hands into his pockets, bounces a little on his feet. “But maybe I wanted to stop by.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tom admits, his expression softening as he meets Roland’s eyes. “Maybe I could drive by your place sometime this week? Or you could come by mine?”

“I could stop by. End of the week alright with you?”

At Tom’s nod of agreement, he reaches out to shake his hand. The touch lingers a little longer than any friendly handshake should, Tom’s hand still warm from his car heater. They say their goodbyes. Roland holds up a hand as Tom drives back out of the lot, then tries to wrangle the dumb smile that’s no doubt plastered across his face under control before he heads back inside.

—

When Roland pulls up to Shoepick Lane at the end of the week, the driveway is empty, but Lucy’s sitting hunched over on the front porch, chain-smoking and tapping her ash into a chipped terracotta saucer. There’s a single duffel bag sitting beside her. She looks up at the click of Roland’s heels on the front walk.

“You,” she says, eyes narrowed, but then she just drops her shoulders and sighs out a long plume of smoke.

“Mrs. Purcell, uh,” Roland coughs, wincing as he corrects himself, “Lucy.”

“Tom ain’t around, probably still at work,” Lucy mumbles around her cigarette.

Roland nods as he settles against one of the porch’s columns. He pulls out his own pack from his shirt pocket and lights up, if only for something to do with his hands. He’d rather just leave and come back when Tom’s around and Lucy’s not, but he’s half-worried she’s planning to set fire to the house or something.

“You, uh, waiting for him?” Roland asks.

Lucy squints up at him. Shrugs her shoulders and pulls her coat a little tighter. “Nah, just dropping off some papers. Grabbing a few things. Dan drove me over.”

From the looks of her makeshift ashtray, Dan’s running late to pick her back up.

“Papers?” he asks.

Lucy nods and takes a long drag. She blows out the smoke before aiming a tight smile his way. “Divorce papers. Custody papers.”

Roland blinks. “You’re signing over custody? I thought—”

“Decided I don’t wanna run my ass around the courts. Fuck it,” she says, punctuating this by stubbing out her cigarette with a little more force than necessary. “Tom’s not wrong. I ain’t cut out to be a mother. Never was. Anyway, no custody means I can finally get myself the hell out of Arkansas.”

Roland nods in acknowledgment. Lucy’s tone is bitter as ever and she’s twisted in on herself, like she’s getting ready to defend herself against whatever Roland might have to say, but otherwise she looks resigned and tired as she lights up her next cigarette. Roland realizes his own is quickly becoming just ash, forgotten already between his fingers. He lowers himself to sit on the other side of the ceramic dish. Taps the ash off and watches Lucy flick her sharp gaze his way.

“You ain’t really fucking my husband, are you?” she asks.

Roland manages not to cough on his own smoke, just barely. “Uh, no, ma’am. I can’t say I am.”

“I figured as much.” Lucy sniffs. “You’re out of his league.”

“Thought you said I was a cripple.”

“You are,” Lucy deadpans, eyebrows raised, “but you’re a good-looking one. Even with the cowboy-ass jacket. I ain’t blind. I was just tryin’ to piss off Tom.”

Roland flashes a grin at her in spite of himself—he supposes it’s just his ingrained response to compliments, even from the likes of a woman like Lucy Purcell. She just scoffs and rolls her eyes, entirely unimpressed.

“So, you being some kinda queer—that’s just more of the same bullshit.”

“Maybe. Maybe only half,” Roland admits, wondering if he’s gonna regret opening up in any kind of way to Lucy Purcell.

But if Lucy has any kind of reaction to his honesty, she doesn’t show it. She just taps the ash from her cigarette and stares across the dying lawn. The surrounding neighborhood is quiet and grey, like they’re the only two living beings around for miles.

“I thought Tom was a real catch back when I met him,” Lucy says, slowly, like that feeling was so long ago, it’s hard for her to even accept it was once true. “When I was still in school, I used to waitress at this shitty little diner. Tom was there after work with some other guys—I’d seen him around a couple times. This time, there was some creep giving me shit at another table, trying to grab my ass. Tom snapped and punched him. They got into a real brawl out in the parking lot. He got his ass handed to him, but dumb kid I was, I thought it was real romantic—him trying to defend my honor or whatever the fuck. I ended up icing his face out back with a malt cup.”

Roland blinks at Lucy. She’s sitting with her arms curled around herself, eyes distant, cigarette forgotten. He doesn’t say anything. Ain’t quite sure what there is to say.

“Nobody’d ever done that shit for me before, ‘cept maybe Dan.” She scoffs, “Then I find out he can only get it up for me when he’s blasted.”

Her tone goes bitter again all at once as she comes back into the present, lifting her cigarette again. Roland thinks seeing Lucy Purcell openly vulnerable may be akin to getting a glimpse of Bigfoot through the trees.

“So, where you plannin’ to head?” Roland asks.

“Nevada, maybe. Dan’s bullshitted his way into some kinda personal injury settlement. Land’s cheap and there’s casinos. Hell, there’s always hooking for a change in career.” She smirks at Roland’s carefully blank expression. “Settlement’s good, though. Might be enough money leftover to get my goddamn tubes tied once we get there.”

“Well, good luck with it all,” Roland says, hoping his tone sounds sincere. This is the most he’s liked Lucy Purcell since he’s met her.

There’s the sound of a car coming down the street. Roland recognizes it as Dan’s as it comes closer.

Lucy snorts as she crushes out her last cigarette and stands, duffel bag in hand. “Sure, detective.”

“You’re not gonna wait for Tom?”

Lucy shakes her head. “You can be the bearer of good news. Papers are on the kitchen table. Me ‘n Dan wanna hit the road before rush hour.”

Roland puts out his own cigarette so he can stand and walk alongside her to where Dan’s car is idling curbside. “You don’t gotta grab anything else from the house? That’s it?”

“Anything I left, I don’t need,” Lucy mutters. She rolls her eyes when Roland opens the car door for her with a flourish.

Inside the car, Dan’s drumming his hands against the wheel in beat to whatever’s on the radio. Attempting to, anyway. Roland leans down to eyeball him. Dan stares right back—he’s got dark bags under his eyes, but he looks lucid enough. Roland hopes they make it to Nevada without ending up in some kind of meth-fueled crash.

“You Tommy’s boyfriend?” Dan asks him, grinning.

“Don’t fucking start,” Lucy snaps as she tosses her duffel bag in the backseat. She’s already digging in her pockets for another cigarette. “I don’t wanna hear a single word ‘bout Tom the entire goddamn drive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dan agrees, still grinning.

“Happy trails,” Roland tells them. “Drive safe.”

Whatever smartass thing Dan might’ve said in response is cut short by Lucy slamming the door shut. Roland watches them drive away until they turn the corner. They make it that far, at least.

—

Roland waits around on the front porch until Tom pulls into the driveway. He steps out of his car and his mouth quirks up at the sight of Roland, who can’t deny there’s a certain flutter in his stomach at that. Like a damn schoolgirl. Tom shuffles his way over, hands in the pockets of his work coveralls, baseball cap pulled over the mess of his curls.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s trying to act casual, but can’t quite hide that he’s pleased to see Roland.

“Hey, yourself.” Roland grins up at him. Scratch acting like a schoolgirl, he’s feeling like the teenager he once was—like he’s fourteen again and behind his family’s barn sharing smokes with the boy down the road, their fingers brushing each time they pass the cigarette, his heart jumping with each touch of skin.

“Come on in before you freeze out here,” Tom mumbles as he unlocks the front door.

Roland gets up and follows him into the warmth of the house. He waits until the door’s shut before saying, “Lucy was here.”

Tom gives him a sharp look. “Was she.”

“She said she’s signing over custody and agreeing to the divorce. Left the papers on the table. Told me her ‘n Dan are headed off to Nevada, should already be on the highway by now.”

“Jesus,” Tom mutters to himself as he rifles through the thick stack of documents on the kitchen table. His eyebrows knit together as he scans them over. The papers start to tremble in his hands. “Shit, this, this is—”

“Hey, it’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah—” Tom’s voice cracks as he sets the papers down and falls heavily into a chair. He swallows, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah, it’s real good. I had thought—”

Roland steps closer so he can squeeze Tom’s shoulder, Tom’s own calloused fingers coming up to cover his. Tom sniffs once.

“It’s gonna be alright, man,” Roland murmurs. “Everything’s good now.”

Tom nods, pulling Roland closer to rest his face against the front of his shirt, one arm winding around Roland’s waist. Roland grins a little, stepping in between Tom’s legs to hold him closer. 

“Thank you,” Tom mumbles against the fabric of his dress shirt, “for all your help.”

“Don’t think anything I did really affected anything much, actually,” Roland admits.

“Still,” Tom says, shrugging beneath Roland’s hands, “had Lucy not signed off…I would’ve needed more proof than my word.”

“Fair enough.”

They stay like that a moment, intertwined in the dying afternoon light of Tom’s kitchen, before disentangling themselves from one another. Tom seems suddenly aware of their casual closeness, chewing his lip and not meeting Roland’s eyes.

“You want coffee?” he asks, busying himself with the machine.

“Sure,” Roland agrees.

Tom drums his fingers against the counter as the coffee pot rumbles to life on the counter behind him. “I’m gonna have to figure out how to break it to the kids. Ain’t gonna be easy on them.”

“You know…I got an old buddy, down at the precinct. His wife’s a real softy, always picking up strays. Last I talked to him, she’d brought in a pregnant stray and he was hoping not to have to keep the whole litter. It’s just a mutt, but I doubt kids care too much ‘bout that kind of thing.”

“You sayin’ my kids can just replace their mother with a dog?” Tom squints at him.

There’s an off-color joke to be made there, but Roland’s not about to risk it. Even after kissing Tom, he’s not entirely sure the man wouldn’t throw a punch his way if he said something rude about his soon-to-be ex-wife. “Just a thought,” he says, leaning himself against the opposite counter. “They’re tough kids. I’m sure they’ll get it eventually, but a bribe couldn’t hurt.”

“Maybe you’re right. Was never right, us putting our shit on them. I can’t pretend it was all Lucy, neither. I did my fair share,” Tom admits, lifting his chin to meet Roland’s eyes again, “but I intend to do better. Make my own changes. And maybe…maybe that means lying to myself less. About who I am. What I want.”

Roland smiles at him. “Lucy asked me if we were really fucking or not.”

Tom chokes, shaking his head. “What’d you say to that?”

“Told her the truth,” Roland admits as he slides closer, close enough to hook his fingers into the pockets of Tom’s coveralls, reeling him in close again. “We ain’t yet. Hopefully soon. We’re working on it.”

Tom snorts out a laugh and then they’re kissing, slower than the last time. Roland slides his hands up Tom’s sides, feeling the warmth of him beneath his clothing. They fumble their way into the bedroom. Roland glances at the bed, can’t help but remember that not a month earlier, Tom had found Lucy and her boss in it. There’s still a few bleached out spots on the carpeting where the blood from Tom’s nose had landed.

Tom must be thinking something similar because he grimaces and says, “Think I might just burn the damn thing.”

“Think I can work around that,” Roland mumbles, pushing Tom up against the wall instead and reattaching his mouth to Tom’s stubbled throat.

He’s got Tom’s coveralls unzipped, the top half of them hanging loose around his waist. His own shirt’s untucked and half-unbuttoned, Tom’s hands working their way beneath it, when there’s the rattle of the front door. They both freeze, hands still on each other.

“Fuck. That’s the kids,” Tom curses, pushing away from Roland and pulling his coveralls back up. “You need to—”

“Don’t worry,” Roland sighs. He shuffles over to the window. Its screen is still lying outside in the dirt. “I’ll show myself out.”

**Author's Note:**

> 20 years later, Wayne hunts Roland down and is like, “Roland, we gotta finish the case. I need to know if Lucy and Dan were actually fucking.” The End.


End file.
